Mitzvah Envy

by Richard J. Mammana, Jr.

Today is the fifth day of the Feast of Tabernacles, known to modern Jews as
Sukkot. A group of young Orthodox Jewish men—of the Lubavitcher sect—wait
at the Columbia University gate, beckoning Jews, both observant and not so,
to spend a few moments in their portable booth, to bless the citron, palm, myrtle,
and willow branches offered inside. Men among the passersby will also be invited
to put on tefillin, to say blessings, and to thereby hasten the coming of the
Messiah.

A student stops in every four or five minutes, keeping all the Lubavitchers
busy. When one isn’t occupied, he passes out leaflets about their late
rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, whom some of them believe to be the Messiah
and for whose imminent return they wait. All the while, klezmer music booms
from speakers mounted on the pickup truck that serves as the base for the booth.
It sounds pretty good, and mitzvahs are mounting by the minute: Columbia’s
shul on the street is a decided success.

Six young Franciscans stand at the gate to Columbia’s campus, clad in
their habits. A pickup truck sits on the street nearby, with a confessional
mounted on the bed and a set of wooden steps leading up to the open tailgate.
A priest inside waits to give spiritual counsel and absolution to any students
who may wish them. The friars invite passersby to spend a few minutes on a decade
of the rosary.

One friar passes out invitations to a student prayer service to be held that
evening. All the while, an alternation of Palestrina and praise songs wafts
from a set of speakers unfortunately close to the confessional. A temporary
church on the corner is doing its work to spread the Good News of Christ at
the gates of Columbia University.

The Difference

What is the difference between these two events? The first is actually happening
outside my window right now; the second probably never will. This has occasioned
a serious case of mitzvah-envy in me.

The fact is that Columbia University, like the rest of New York City, is a
place where Jews are serious about their faith and its practice, and not afraid
to defend and to persevere in it either. Christians, on the other hand, are
remarkably timid about admitting their faith, let alone proclaiming it verbally.

The people of God’s covenant with Abraham reaffirm their identity every
day. It’s something I admire very much; it’s something from which
I draw strength, and by which I think God is glorified. Peter Kreeft’s
Ecumenical Jihad makes a convincing case for serious alliance and mutual
encouragement of classical Christians and observant Jews in opposition to the
secularism that is our common enemy, and the enemy of mankind. There are certainly
elements of one here. Columbia is a healthier and holier place for both communities
and their witness.

But if we do battle the same secular gods, there is a twinge of a double standard
in the university, to say the least. It’s cool to be Jewish. Yarmulkes
in class are not only expected, but accepted, yet a crucifix around the neck,
a Bible on the desk, or a rosary in the belt is definitely not expected, let
alone accepted. On the contrary, the response is more likely to be disgust or
loss of intellectual respect.

The yarmulke in class leaves no doubt that its wearer is one of God’s
Chosen People, on whom he has put his mark, and from whom all salvation comes.
For girls, a good clue on Jewishness is the modest long black skirt many wear.
The 15-foot-tall menorah on college walk during Hanukkah, or those in innumerable
students’ rooms, leave no doubt that the tradition of this people is alive
and well and generally approved. And yet I have a feeling that a cross of the
same dimensions during Holy Week would provoke a roar from the ACLU only somewhat
quieter than the trumps of Armageddon.

There is no denying the visible vitality of Judaism on campus, or its status
as religio licita. Nor is there any denying that serious Christianity
mostly exists as it did under Constantine just after the Edict of Milan: we’re
tolerated, but that’s about all. While classes are routinely cancelled
on Jewish High Holy Days by professors who know that large numbers of students
will not attend, no provision is made in the university calendar for Holy Week
observances or for any number of other Christian holidays.

Fridays & Sundays

A purely cultural observance is widespread, though I have a feeling
that even the vestiges of this do not exist for much of the (baptized) Christian
student body. Friday evenings and Sunday mornings are a good way to gauge this.

On Fridays, throngs of students gather for Shabbat in various local synagogues,
as well as in chaplaincy-organized activities. Later on in the evening, as the
fraternities begin to fill up and some Gentiles return from movies, the Jewish
students walk back from services, chatting on the streets, enjoying their friends,
living yiddishkeit far away from home. On Sunday mornings, when with
a small group of friends I leave my building to trudge on bus and subway to
our Church of the Resurrection, the birds and taxi drivers are often our only
company.

That picture isn’t quite complete; alone it would be misleading. The
Roman Catholic campus ministry does have its weekly (and well-attended) community
Mass on Sunday evenings, and various other Christian groups meet throughout
the week, sponsoring activities, lectures, and services. But there is nothing
so actively visible as the young, observant, Jewish population within
the student body. The scandal of Christian disunity may have a lot to do with
this, as may the lack of even purely ethnic or cultural cohesion among us.

Yet perhaps part of the Christian challenge and the Glorious Battle is living
in a world where one doesn’t always know what one’s neighbor believes
or practices, whether he has been baptized and born into life anew, or whether
he still wears the Old Adam. C. S. Lewis wrote in TheGreat
Divorce of people becoming after they died what they actually were in life
on Earth—the essence of their souls was made visible.

But on this side of the veil we Christians don’t know what those around
us believe save by their words and deeds, nor can we know what gods or God they
serve. So we have enlisted in a partly invisible army, cooperating in at least
some way with those more visible soldiers of the older Covenant for the glory
and honor of its God.

But wouldn’t it be nice, after all, if it were observant Christians
who wore yarmulkes? And wouldn’t it be heartening if we had so signal
a sign as the yarmulke to proclaim silently our life in the Pierced and Risen
One?

Columbia, at least, would be a different place indeed if we did.

“Mitzvah Envy” first appeared in the March 2000 issue of Touchstone. If you enjoyed this article, you'll find more of the same in every issue.

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